


Tequila Sunrise

by ivorygates



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: F/M, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 19:08:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10519980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivorygates/pseuds/ivorygates
Summary: A hot Texas afternoon, a bottle, a bed, two pilots.  Written sometime around 2008, I think.  And--now that I think about it--probably works as backstory for "Roses In December"...





	

**Author's Note:**

> I found this little bit of PWP while I was poking around my hard drive and realized I'd never posted it here...

She isn't sure how this game of "dare you" got to the "both of them in their underwear in Cam's bedroom" part, but it's August _(August in Texas_) and the A/C in Cam's apartment doesn't work, and she came over to see if she could fix it, and the answer to that is "no", and by rights they should've just gone back to her place, except he pulled out the bottle as a consolation prize (because he knows she hates to fail even at impossible things) and, well, here they are. Not the first time, and she'd like to be _in love_ with Cameron Mitchell instead of just loving him, and she doesn't know how to be, but somehow it's all right. 

Sam has a whole wardrobe of liquor choices, something he finds hilarious. Vodka for when she's in the O Club drinking with the old men with the stars, the eagles, the oak leaves. Scotch for when she's angry and alone, thinking of glass ceilings and the institutionalized sexism of a service branch that grew out of the Women's Air Corps. Beer for when she's fooling around on a weekend off.

Tequila for when she's happy. Tequila turns her into the woman she wants to be, rather than the woman she is.

"Hold still," she tells Cam seriously, biting her lips to keep from giggling. She's holding the bottle of tequila and trying to pour it into the little hollow at the base of his throat. (He was the one who started the whole discussion of licking booze off somebody's skin -- after a couple of shots -- she's the one who said it would be more efficient to use the natural body hollows as a cup.)

Cam does his best to look serious as she raises the bottle, and seeing that, she can't manage to keep a straight face. She can't get the bottle to pour, either.

"No, baby, no," Cam says earnestly. "You-- _This_ is what you gotta do--" He slides his hand over hers, moving them, together, down the bottle. A sudden slow kindling in her chest and her belly makes her hands unsteady; she's about to drop it, but he gets both hands around it, clasped around the bottle and her hand. "In fact, I see what the _entire problem_ is here. You're doing this entirely backwards, is the problem."

It doesn't take wrestling of any kind for him to gain possession of the bottle. He holds it in one hand, pouring it carefully down from the top of her collarbone, with his free hand poised at the edge of her tank top neckline to catch the spill. Then he leans forward, and she feels his mouth at the hollow of her throat, licking and sucking. 

"Tequila and salt," he murmurs, offering her the palm of his hand.

It glistens with alcohol, the scent is sharp and green and sweet all at once. She takes it in both hands and laps at it like a dog, drawing her tongue the length of his palm, from the base of his fingers to the base of his wrist. The taste of tequila is sharp on her tongue. She licks his hand clean, and more than clean, taking each of his fingers into her mouth in turn, sucking on them as hard as she can, wanting him to feel the pull. She rubs his fingers with her tongue, feeling the roughness of calluses. She hears him inhale sharply, but he's doing nothing to stop her: a game of 'chicken' played by grown-ups' rules. And with two winners.

He lifts the bottle to his lips and takes a swig of tequila, then pulls his fingers from her mouth. She sucks hard, holding onto them until the last minute, licking her lips when he pulls free. He leans forward, covering her mouth carefully with his, opening his lips only when hers are sealed in place. A little tequila drips down her chin anyway, but most of it gets into her mouth. She tastes tequila and Cam.

She swallows, sucks on his tongue until the last of the taste is gone; now it's her turn. She takes a mouthful of tequila, but just as she's about to kiss him back an irresistible sense of the intrinsic ridiculousness of the situation, the position overtakes her for a fatal moment. With a mouthful of tequila she laughs (tries to swallow instead, it doesn't happen) and sprays Cam all over. Not his face, but just about everything else. He yelps in surprise, with laughter, then wipes a hand down his bare torso, collecting droplets of liquor before he slides the hand under the edge of her top. He trails his fingertips up her sweat-moist skin until he reaches her breast. His hand is wet with tequila as he skates it over her nipple. Her skin tingles as the alcohol starts to evaporate.

"Think I missed a spot," Cam says, his voice slow and husky. "Think I better clean that up."

He leans forward -- and she has _always_ admired his ability to move slowly. (Speed is flashy, but moving slowly takes more skill.) He rolls her thin cotton tank slowly up her body until it's rolled up just beneath her arms. She sucks in a long deep breath as he nuzzles his way around her breast as if he's mapping the terrain, until she wants to grab him by both ears and simply clamp him into place. Her hands slide across his arms and shoulders; his skin is slightly rough where he's been doused in tequila: the alcohol has stripped the surface oils from the skin. Then (at last) his lips settle over her nipple; he hums in satisfaction -- she's heard him make the _exact same sound_ under the hood of his Mustang, when he finally finds the reason for the funny noise when the car hits 80; pleasure, satisfaction -- Cameron Mitchell likes knowing how things work and making them perform well.

And then she leans forward, bearing him back down to the bed with her weight; his arms go around her and she's straddling his torso. He laughs at her because he's still wearing boxers and so is she. She sets the bottle she's holding down on the mattress to whip off the tank top. He steadies the bottle as she tosses the sweat-damp top away then sinks down and back to ride his hips, feeling the hardness of his erection through two layers of thin soft cotton. His smile fades a little, his eyes growing more intent. He slides his free hand up her thigh, slipping his fingers under the hem of her boxers, sliding his hand up over her hip. She reclaims the tequila and fills her mouth again, kneeling up to lean over him. This time they kiss, their tongues sliding over each other, sharing the tequila as if it were oxygen, shared breath. He pulls down her boxers; his hands slide up and over her ass, cupping and squeezing. When she rocks back to breathe, she can see his mouth is wet and glistening; she licks her lips.

"Sam…" he says, a low husky purr of arousal. 

She feels the thrill of it over her skin, deep in her pussy, and now the tropical Texas summer heat of his bedroom isn't too hot. She falls back to the bed ungracefully, on her ass between his spread knees, and pulls the boxers all the way off, tossing them in the same direction as her top. The open bottle of tequila is balanced precariously on the mattress. She's naked now except for her tags (point of pride to wear them everywhere), and she kneels up again between his thighs, rubbing her palm, with slow firmness, up over the bulge in his boxers, knowing from long experience where his cock lies when he's hard. Cam sighs out raggedly, just enough voice beneath the breath to carry the moan of arousal. Sam knows all the sounds he makes by now -- when she's touching him, when he's inside her -- and the sound is as arousing as his touch. She pulls the waistband of the boxers away from his skin; he hitches his hips up to help her slide them down, his slow lazy smile making her his partner in a conspiracy of heat and salt and pleasure. She can smell him now: skin and salt and musk. She kneewalks backward on the mattress, pulling the fabric down over his thighs, his knees.

"Whoa-- Whoa-- Whoa--" he yelps abruptly, thrashing to his side just too late to keep the bottle from spilling. "That's the good stuff!" He salvages it, still half full, and tries to look indignant. 

"Yeah…" she says. Too much heaviness in her chest, in her belly, to bubble over into laughter now, but she feels it anyway, laughter like the touch of his hands on her skin. The sheet is sopping wet, pools of liquor caught in its folds. She lifts it to her lips, sucking out the wetness, letting it drip down her skin, before wringing it out over his torso. He sucks in, hollowing his belly. The wetness slides down, pooling in his navel. 

"Okay," she says seriously. "See: this is what--" She doesn't finish the sentence, leaning over to tongue at his navel, licking and sucking and teasing. She can feel the heat of his skin, his cock, radiating against her throat. If he wants to stop her -- she knows he doesn't -- he's handicapped by the fact he's still holding onto the bottle.

"Gotta-- Gonna--" he says, as she moves up the length of his body, inches above his skin, the way a pilot flies, down on the deck. She leans over to kiss him again -- wet and sloppy and possessive -- and runs her hand over his, taking the bottle, stretching a long arm to settle it on the floor. She's hooked her other hand behind his shoulder to anchor her; the motion, completed, presses their bodies together. His arms circle her, skating over the thin film of sweat as he strokes her back. He licks the soft skin of her neck, tongues the chain of her tags, arches his back to bring their bodies closer together. All she feels is heat. The heat of the summer afternoon, the heat of the tequila, the heat of his body, and she's sublimating -- endothermic phase reaction -- from pilot, from officer, from woman, into pure sensation; a heterodyne, Cam is her other half, they are the sum of two frequencies, a long slow waveform.

 _Yes and yes and yes,_ she thinks, lifting up and fitting him against her, inside her, and the long slow liquid glide of being filled makes her breathe in, slow filling of lungs as she arches like the long slow climb to cruising altitude, head thrown back, mouth open in a silent shout. She forces herself to look down, to open her eyes as he begins to move in her, as she begins to move on him; she feels the awareness of orgasm like the sight of distant flashes of summer lightning on the far horizon: unbreakable promise of a flash storm and the cold transient shock of rain. His eyes are hooded; his lashes flicker just a little. He licks his lips and smiles up at her, meeting her eyes, and his eyes are blue as the clear sky, and Sam thinks once again of beautiful machines, fast and powerful and comprehended by the exploration of human touch. Thinks of chains of equations dancing through her mind, begging her to take them to their ultimate resolution. His breath hitches as he urges her to move faster, and she thinks of speed, and thinks, in one last breathless moment of clarity, that she's a fine machine and he's the ultimate equation and together they'll solve each other...

#


End file.
